Lucid Dreams (Twelfth Doctor Adventures 1)
by WandererInTime
Summary: Charlie Drake is an ordinary teenager. But when he's plagued by a nightmare that becomes real, the only person who can help him is the Doctor.
1. Chapter 1: Lies and Dreams

"I don't know. I can't describe it. I don't really understand."

He spoke in the same way a guitarist tries to pluck a song from an untuned instrument with a string missing. It doesn't matter if you're playing all the right notes, it sounds pathetic and wrong beyond salvation.

Already regretting his answer, he tugged at his untidy mop of dark hair. There was nothing special about his hair; it hadn't been styled in any particular way. In fact, the only thing he'd done with it this morning was to brush it aside so it didn't get in his eyes.

"Can you try?" asked the voice: a female voice, which was trying to sound warm and comforting. It had the air of a primary school teacher; someone who was used to talking – calmly – to small children.

He felt a knot in his stomach – a feeling which was there because he understood exactly what it was. He was just unable to put it into meaningful words. And there really didn't seem to be much point trying.

He opened his eyes. His pupils contracted as they adjusted to the bright strip lights above him. He stared up at the ceiling, clearly painted white to give an impression of sterility and cleanliness. It also looked harsh and cold.

"Try? How am I supposed to explain it if I don't even get it myself?"

The voice again, like the death throes of a wounded animal that is in all likelihood going to have to be put down – because that would be the kindest thing to do.

As he spoke, his hand clenched into a fist. When he realised, he let it drop back into the armrest. She would have noticed that.

She didn't say anything, though. She didn't say anything at all. She was silent for well over a minute.

She'd opened up a yawning void, filled with nothing but the silence. It would've remained that way until he said something.

He sighed. Fine, just say it. It sounded ridiculous, but what did that matter anymore?

"I just sort of… wish I could go back in time… and… and… I don't know."

His mouth opened and closed, trying to make a sound. He looked more like a drowning goldfish. And he felt like one, too.

"I… just don't know." His voice cracked, and he cursed himself internally.

She considered his words for a moment, before responding.

"You wish you'd done things differently?"

"Well, obviously!" he almost yelled.

He screwed his face up, taking all of his restraint to avoid cursing out loud. He went for his pulse, and began counting, to distract himself.

"Okay." She said, maintaining her patience. "I can see you're still not ready to talk about that yet. Perhaps we could talk about something else."

A rustle, as a page turned.

A crawling sense of dread swept through him, adding to the nauseating feeling of adrenaline brought on by his outburst.

She left some time for him to calm down. He didn't know why she bothered. He'd only start feeling worse again the moment he had to open his mouth.

"How about your dreams?" she suggested.

This was a question he had anticipated. It was only a question of how long he could avoid answering it.

He left a long pause that was in reality only a few seconds.

"Which dream?"

He looked at the woman. She was sitting comfortably in a leather swivel chair, a clipboard resting on her knee. She displayed an expression of interest, and would smile, quizzically, he thought, whenever she didn't understand a response.

It was clear that she had not _fully_ understood everything he'd said so far. It probably didn't help that he wasn't being completely honest. Sometimes it's easier to lie than tell people how you feel.

"You mentioned a recurring chase dream last week." She continued. "We were going to talk about it then, but, unfortunately, we ran out of time."

Yes - _that_ dream. He'd been having that dream for some time now, ever since… well, ever since _then_.

On the first night, the dream left him unable to sleep for days afterwards, and the image of it would haunt him even during daylight hours, imprinted vividly in his memory. After three days of sleepless nights, tired and fatigued, he gave in to his drowsiness. But every time he slept, it returned.

It was happening less frequently now, though that didn't make dealing with it any easier.

* * *

It would be midnight. He would be lying in bed, and there would be a creak, or a scratch, or a tap. Not very loud, but amplified by the preceding silence, such that it would be startling.

He would push back the covers and blankets on the bed, and move very slowly and very quietly over to the window. The heavy, blue curtains would seem to sway, minutely. Heart hammering in his chest, he would draw them back, just a few inches.

Nothing.

The only thing that could be seen was the blackness of night, undisturbed by artificial light. Confused, he would keep staring.

And then –

A bright white flash illuminated a figure standing right outside his window. The face was heavily shadowed, and distorted by the glass.

He jumped back in shock, and his heart skipped a beat, before resuming a pounding rhythm that made his ears throb.

Another flash; the towering figure opened its jaws, baring its teeth in a malevolent grin. The rest of its face was shrouded in darkness, and as the light faded from his retinas, the window was black once more.

Flash!

With a sickening jolt, he staggered backwards.

Impossibly, the figure was _inside!_ Inside his bedroom – standing less than a metre from him. How the -?

A hand extended from its robed arm, ready to reach out and grab him. Sharp, blackened fingernails protruded from the ends of its wizened fingers.

The figure seemed to move like a character in an old silent movie: little snapshots stitched together, giving the effect that it had been strobe-lit.

A gasp was trapped in the back of his throat. He was too petrified to cry out. He did the only thing he could think of: run.

He wrenched open his bedroom door, bolted across the landing and took the stairs two at a time, almost tripping up in his haste.

This part of the dream he had had countless times before. Chased by a nameless, terrible thing; always right behind him, always catching up, whispering, taunting.

And he was alone.

The front door! Locked. Of course it was locked. That never stopped him from trying the handle.

He felt a prickling sensation at the back of his neck, as his hairs stood on end. It was about to happen.

He slowly turned his head, peering out of the corner of his eye. It was there. No! He couldn't look at it, and shut his eyes. Cold fear immobilised him, as the thing grasped his shoulder with a claw-like hand.

His eyes snapped open. He was back in his room, shivering, sweating. He would rub his shoulder – because the ache was always very real when he awoke.

* * *

"Charlie?" her voice shattered the silence; he had not spoken for some minutes.

He shuffled into a more comfortable position in the reclining chair. Well, "comfortable" was a relative term. Charlie returned his attention to the woman, and she continued.

"You only started having this dream, when…" She trailed off.

"Yes."

"I see."

About time! That must have been the first thing she'd actually understood. Although, Charlie knew, it was not her job to understand. She didn't even need to care. She was really there to help _him_ understand. She was somebody to talk to, just for the sake of talking.

'Get it off your chest,' people would say, 'don't keep it bottled up.'

Clichés. He hated clichés.

"They say the subconscious mind works on problems while you're asleep." She said.

"Yes." Replied Charlie. He'd heard this before. "And during the day it's when you're listening to music. Watching TV. Talking… to people."

"What do you think it means?"

"My dream? You're suggesting that my subconscious is trying to tell me something? Giving me a warning?"

Her smile flickered for a moment. Clearly, he had misunderstood.

"Or perhaps it's a reflection of real problems and real feelings."

Alone. Trapped. Chased. Running. Just wanting to run. To get out. To get away. Just to get away from… life.

"Yes." Charlie conceded.

Unfortunately, 'Yes' did not effectively convey the thoughts that had just formed in his mind.

"Most 'chase' dreams are a result of your anxieties when you're awake. And whether you run, or don't run, is reflective of what you would do in real life. So instead of facing your… fear-."

"I run away." Charlie finished.

He always ran away. Thinking about it, he had never really considered where he would have run to, in the dream. Why is it, when you're dreaming, that you just don't consider the obvious?

She nodded. "Yes. Do you know what it is you're running from?"

"Um…" Charlie began, bothered. It could be any number of things, really. "No."

"Have you considered the idea that the… figure is you?"

Yeah.

"Me?" Charlie uttered, hoping to mask his true thoughts with confusion.

The lying again. Well, it wasn't really lying, was it? Just not… the truth?

"Yes, an embodiment of an emotion, such as anger; a part of yourself that you've rejected."

Charlie's eyes flickered towards her. Once again, he had the crushing feeling that he didn't want to be here, and he was struggling to keep his emotions in check. He could feel the tense muscles in the back of his neck twitching in frustration.

"Consider… confronting the chaser next time you have this dream?" she suggested. "Find out why it's chasing you. Find out what it _really_ is. And perhaps you'll feel ready to share it."

Charlie's eyes widened with terror at the very thought of facing the creature.

"But I couldn't… it would kill me."

"Charlie, the dream isn't real." She assured him. "You can take control of it."

When she was certain that Charlie understood her, she filled in the notes on her pad of paper.

"There's one thing I don't quite understand, teleporting men aside." She continued, "How can something stand outside your window? It's not on the ground floor, is it?"

The question confused Charlie. It had taken him by surprise, and was completely pointless. It took him a moment to formulate an answer: "There's a roof. Flat. For the extension. You can walk on it."

It was a dumb question, and he felt stupid trying to answering it.

Oh, Charlie realised. Except it was another distraction. To keep his mind away from the reason he was here. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, he was getting good at second-guessing her subtle methods.

"Right. Yes, I can see how that might… play on your mind." She sighed, and pushed her cascading red hair behind her ear. "Our session's almost finished."

Time flies when you're having fun. So that's why it felt like it'd been hours.

"What can we aim to do for next week? Have you considered writing your thoughts down, in a diary?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. What have you written?"

"Nothing." Charlie stared out of the window, and watched the bare trees swaying in the wind. "There's a lot of things I never get round to doing."

There was one more thing. One more thing that he needed to say. It was another dream. Not a dream in the hallucinating-whilst-asleep sense, but more of an idea. A vividly dreamt idea, you could say. It was just something he'd made up to get to sleep.

There was a man. A man who stood guard outside his window, battling the monsters that dwelt in darkness. He watched over him – watched over everyone. He was old, but kind, and had knowledge and powers beyond all human understanding. He wasn't afraid of nightmares. He wasn't afraid of monsters. Monsters were afraid of _him_. Wherever he went, people were… safe.

The very idea of this protector made Charlie feel better. Makes things better…

"Formalities." She announced.

"Hmm…?"

He was handed a clipboard.

"Sign that form to prove you actually turned up. Otherwise they'll think I've been talking to myself for an hour." She chuckled at her joke.

Probably best not to mention that, Charlie thought, as he scrawled his signature on the paper. Don't want her to think I'm totally insane.

"As always, everything we've said is completely confidential. Nothing will leave this room unless I think you're in any danger."

Retrospectively, the irony of her statement was astounding.

"Don't forget," she said, as Charlie was about to leave the room, "There's always somebody you can talk to. If there's anything you take away from this, let it be that."

"Thank you, Sandra." He said, as sincerely as possible.

She smiled at him, as he turned away.

Charlie hesitated. A question had come to him, as he had his hand on the door handle. He turned back to her, and asked:

"You know when I told you, last week, that I had that dream… about being chased?"

She nodded.

"Why did you ask me if it was a snake?"

Sandra took a moment to recall the conversation.

"A snake is not an uncommon chaser, when there's something you have difficulty facing, or if there's something you're afraid of. There's a lot of theory out there about dream symbolism, but it's not worth getting too caught up in the details."

Charlie nodded, and left, deep in his thoughts, a puzzled frown blemishing his features.

Sandra watched as he pulled the door silently shut behind him. She sighed, and finished jotting down some notes.

After a minute, she placed the clipboard down on a table, and moved over to the window. She pushed the blinds aside, and stared down at the world outside. There was a light drizzle spattering the glass, painting the drab world outside, making everything seem a little more greyed out. _Typical English summer_ , she thought dryly.

She saw Charlie leave the building, and trudge down the street, not bothering to pull his hood up to shield himself from the rain.

Sandra didn't want to believe that he didn't care anymore. Because, she thought, Charlie was brilliant. He had a sharp mind, and he was incredibly creative. For one session several weeks ago, she had asked him to express his feelings artistically. She had been surprised when Charlie had returned, pages of a sketchbook filled with horrifically detailed, and frankly disturbing, imagery. Some of them were so disconcerting, that she hadn't at all wanted to ask him to explain his thoughts behind them.

She watched Charlie cross the street, barely glancing both ways before stepping out into the road. He continued walking, without even glancing up at the people he passed. He turned a corner, and disappeared from her sight.

She felt certain that he wouldn't put himself in danger. He wasn't a risk taker. He wasn't a drug user, and he didn't drink alcohol. The only real danger to his well-being was himself.

She had noticed, for all Charlie's creativity, he was a bit of a dreamer. He had trapped himself in his own world – to protect himself – but he couldn't stay there. Very soon, he would have to wake up, and face reality. He couldn't stay in a world where A-levels didn't exist, and nightmares were real.

Yes, she thought, turning away from the window. The rain was easing off, yet the clouds began to darken further, an angry shade of grey.

Well, the teleporting man was one of the more interesting monsters, Sandra mused with a weary smile. She wondered where the idea had come from. The result of too many horror films or computer games, probably.

She sat down heavily in her chair, an overwhelming wave of exhaustion crashing over her. There was something in the way he'd recounted that dream. She knew it wasn't real, but it was almost as if Charlie _believed_ it. It placed an ounce of doubt in her, which, as she worked for the remainder of the day, grew and strengthened the uncertainty in the back of her mind.

Tonight, she would have difficulty falling asleep. Tonight, she would have her first nightmare in years.


	2. Chapter 2: The Nightmare Begins

Charlie stumbled home, oblivious to everything around him. A deafening car horn made him jump, and he scrambled across the road, ignoring the driver's furious gestures. Fortunately, the remainder of his journey was undisturbed. He lived in a quiet suburban neighbourhood.

He couldn't be bothered looking at the houses anymore. They were nearly all the same. Bricks and stone, slates and tiles, a modestly well-kept front lawn.

Charlie knew that, although he resented being with Sandra, she was useful to him. She was helpful, kind. She had taught him a number of coping mechanisms and grounding techniques, which helped him keep calm on a daily basis, despite the fact that it was when he was with her that he needed to use them.

He entered his house as quietly as he could, and retreated to the sanctity of his room. His mum watched him sadly from behind a door, which concealed her from his sight. She was, as usual, looking rather morose. Maybe there was still hope for him. But maybe it would take a long time. Perhaps he might never really recover.

Charlie slammed his door shut, and stood in front of the mirror. There was a crack forming across the bottom left corner, and it was starting to bug him.

He looked into the eyes of the seventeen-year-old boy watching him. The pigments of colour in his irises seemed to be at war: armies of green, flanked by browns, and even troops of yellow.

They were tired.

He struggled against his own reflection, and tore himself away. He couldn't bear to look into the eyes, empty and distant. _He_ was tired. He wanted to sleep. Sleep, and never have to wake up. Not have to live though another day.

What the hell was he supposed to do? Pretend that nothing had ever happened and carry on as normal?

He sat down heavily on the end of his bed, and despite the cold, slung his grey hoodie at his chair.

Charlie knew he was going to be spending the rest of the evening recalling the afternoon's conversation. Replaying every word over and over. Round and round inside his head. Cursing every mistake, feeling the pain of every lie. All the while, sitting motionless. Emotionless. Staring out of the window, watching the melancholy sky grow dark.

He did not respond to any word spoken to him. He didn't want to go back downstairs, and he wasn't hungry.

He reached under his bed for a metal box, about the size of a shoebox. It was fastened by a hefty padlock, the key to which he had lost ages ago. This was all he had left. And it was locked away from him. He couldn't bear to try and open it.

As he clenched the box, his knuckles began to turn white. Damn! He slammed his fist into the metal, and his hand smarted for a few minutes.

He slid the box back into its proper place, and his thoughts turned to everything.

School. Work. Friends. Exams. Lies. The therapy. The pain…

Tears welled up in his eyes, and as he blinked, they dropped to the floor. He shook his head, and began to grind his teeth.

"Stop. Stop it. Stop crying." He growled bitterly.

His heart pined, a feeling of worthlessness piercing him.

A searing pain shot through his arm, and made him cry out. It burned. Shaking, he stretched out his left forearm, and apprehensively ran his fingers along the cuts and scratches.

It was pain – pain he had inflicted upon himself. He remembered the agony of every one, but it no longer meant anything to him.

His head was swimming, lightheaded. It gave the room around him an unreal, almost dreamlike quality.

He laughed. An empty, hollow laugh.

* * *

Charlie woke with a start. He felt heavy, and it was minutes before he could summon the enthusiasm to move.

What time was it? He looked at his clock, the illuminated numbers showing eleven fifty-nine. That was the first dreamless night he'd had in ages, which came as something of a relief.

In less than thirty seconds, it would be twelve o' clock. It would be tomorrow. The day he started running. Something he'd wanted to do for a long time.

Another tap!

 _That's_ what had woken him. He'd fallen asleep where he lay, which was fortunately on his bed. The curtains had not been drawn. There was no moon tonight, or else it was obscured by cloud. It was black outside.

He stood up, and moved closer to the window pane. He could have sworn there was something moving. He just couldn't see it. Probably just a cat, or-

A flash.

 _That figure_.

Charlie leapt back from the window.

"No. No, this can't be happening."

The second flash. The robed figure bared its teeth: yellowed, jagged fangs.

"This has to be a dream." Charlie whispered – barely a whisper.

The creature's black robes were imprinted on his retina. Black, with intricate white markings twisting up the sleeves.

Charlie knew that any second now, it would appear inside his room, in front of him.

Flash! He was frozen to the spot. His legs had failed him; he could not move.

Wait.

There was something wrong. It wasn't there.

No, of course it wasn't. It was a dream. It wasn't real. Hell, it wasn't even physically possible.

Charlie looked down at his hand, and examined his trembling fingers. The little hairs on the back of his hand were tingling, bristling with energy.

"Behind you." It whispered.

Charlie jerked suddenly, the way you do when you wake from a dream where you think you're about to fall. Except, he was already awake.

All the hairs on the back of Charlie's neck stood erect, and the smoothness, yet harshness of the voice set his teeth on edge. He felt its breath, cold and prolonged.

Humans are capable of feats beyond their normal capacity when motivated by fear, and it was fear that motivated Charlie as he twisted out of the figure's reach, then vaulted over his bed and wrenched open the door.

This was _not_ like the dream. The creature was fast, much faster than it should be. It grabbed hold of his ankle, sending Charlie sprawling across the landing, the worn carpet scratching his face. Somehow – just somehow – he managed to break free from its grip, and jumped back to his feet. He launched himself down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, and bouncing off the wall as it turned the corner. He didn't dare look behind him, but it was almost certainly there.

What would he do when he reached the door? _It was locked!_ Locked, chained and bolted.

Charlie crashed into the front door as he stopped, and rested his head against the wooden frame. He let his arms drop by his side. He was going to die.

Not like this. He didn't want to die like this.

Charlie shut his eyes and tried to prepare himself for the end. What would it do?

He felt a hand slowly grab his shoulder. The bony fingers dug into his skin.

"I don't want to die." He whispered.

"Then run." A Scottish voice whispered back.

Charlie frowned.

"Open your eyes, pudding brain, or you'll be _horrifically killed_."

When Charlie opened his eyes, he was looking into the face of a stern, old man, with grey, cropped hair, piercing eyes, and a killer pair of eyebrows.

The man's eyes said: "trust me", and backed up by those eyebrows, Charlie believed them. Subconsciously, there was something familiar about the man, but Charlie didn't have time to work out what it was.

The door was open, and he didn't resist as the man practically shoved him outside.

"Go. Now!"

His sleek black coat swirled around him as he stepped outside and slammed the door shut. There was a buzz, and a flickering red light, and then the man was beside him.

"That way." He said, pointing down the street.

"But-." Charlie started.

"Don't ask questions." The man shoved Charlie and they started running. Running faster and further than he'd run before.

Charlie was barely aware of his world flashing past him as he ran. The familiar streets, suddenly sinister in the shadows of the night, no longer felt safe.

A flash cast their shadows ahead of them. It was behind them. It was going to catch up with them. Did he say 'horrifically killed'? Not just a death, but an unpleasant one. Great. Just great.

Charlie was heaving for breath as they bounded down a flight of stone steps, and through a tunnel; their heavy footfalls reverberating all around, echoing off the brick wall.

"Keep running!" shouted the man. He did not sound out of breath.

They shot out of the tunnel, and Charlie gasped for air.

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere safe."

The man staggered to a halt, throwing a glance over his shoulder, his grey eyes ablaze. He grabbed Charlie's shoulder, and manoeuvred him into a new direction, somehow keeping him on his feet without slowing down or losing balance.

As they raced down a narrow side street, he could hear the creature closing in on him. As always, it was gaining on him. He couldn't bring himself to turn and look, as the old man had done.

He could hear the creature's smooth, booming voice, uttering meaningless, taunting words, strangely amplified. He could feel it coming closer and closer. Its cold breath on the back of his neck. Any second, the nightmare would reach out, and grab him, sending him sprawling into the dirt, and then who knew what would happen to him. He had to keep running.

The street culminated in an open, tarmacked space. Charlie recognised it. It wasn't a place he frequented. It was a kids 'recreation area': basketball court, tennis nets, goalposts. It was abandoned, graffitied.

"Take cover!" the man barked, and Charlie picked out a concrete bench and ducked behind it.

The man skittered to a halt, his hands scything the air, as if they were the only thing keeping him upright.

He immediately leapt to a conspicuous jumble of machinery stacked in the centre of the basketball court, and began stabbing buttons, and flicking switches.

He whirled back around, to face the oncoming monster, his palms itching with anticipation.

From his hiding place, Charlie watched the robed creature run, taking great bounding strides. Its head, masked by shadow, wove side to side, serpent like.

He tensed. What was the man doing? What was he waiting for? The creature was fast – within seconds, it would be upon him.

He glanced at the man, and for a moment, he swore he saw a grin flicker across his lips.

The man twisted to the ramshackle machine, and threw what looked like a Frankenstein knife-switch – a large brass lever with a polished wooden handle.

The machine sparked into life; filament bulbs burning with energy. Charlie noticed a trail of cables that snaked across the tarmac, leading to a metal disc on the floor – right in the creature's path.

Charlie watched in amazement as the figure sped straight into the trap the old man had set.

As it stepped on the metal plate, it burst in a white flash, and vanished – exactly as it had appeared, leaving nothing but a wisp of smoke rising from the floor.

The man clapped his hands together, and, satisfied, powered down the machine.

Charlie emerged warily from his hiding place. He wasn't sure what to do, and took the opportunity to get a good look at the mysterious stranger.

He was wearing a black – or possibly navy blue – jacket, unbuttoned, so that it showed a flash of its red inner lining. A similarly coloured waistcoat hid the man's plain white shirt. He wore thick soled boots that were so highly polished, they reflected the orange streetlights.

Charlie wasn't sure what to make of his attire. It seemed modern and stylish, yet at the same time, it didn't draw any attention to itself. Plus it seemed to be the sort of thing one would wear to a classy dinner party than to… well, whatever this was. Who the hell was this man, anyway?

"Hey?" Charlie uttered.

The man twisted round, interrupting his rapid disassembly of the machine, and raised an eyebrow.

"What was that thing?" he asked, gesturing towards the now-vacant metal plate with his thumb.

"It's a Wraith from another dimension." The man replied, adjusting his shirt cuffs. His matter of fact tone took Charlie by surprise.

"It's a what?"

"A…" the man paused, and shrugged. "Oh, never mind. It's just a figment of your imagination. It wasn't real. Forget about it. Go home."

He turned back to his machine, and began unscrewing something that looked like an alarm clock.

Charlie closed the distance between them, so that he wouldn't have to raise his voice.

"I dreamt about it, but then it was… it was real."

The man turned back to him, his lips twisted in a puzzled frown.

"You dreamt about it?"

"Yeah. I've been dreaming about it for... months."

"Oh, that's unusual." The man tapped his chin, quickly working out an explanation. "Perhaps it's to do with the residual energy from its shift phase. Tell me, do you have any psychic abilities?"

"Psychic abilities?" echoed Charlie in mystification.

"Yes, visions of the future? Awareness of events that others have no knowledge of?" The man suggested.

"No, I guess not." Charlie concluded.

The man waved his fingers next to Charlie's temple.

"As I thought."

Charlie followed the man's fingers, now rather bewildered. The man was acting extraordinarily weirdly.

"Who are you?" Charlie asked, perhaps a little bluntly.

However, the man didn't seem put off by the question – as if he were asked it a lot.

"No-one important." He replied simply.

Charlie was a little confused by the man's response. Clearly he didn't want to tell him his name.

"Okay, this Wraith thing?"

"It's not real. A vision. Hallucination."

"No, it was real." Charlie reaffirmed.

The old man sighed, glancing desperately at his machine, as if pleading with it to help with his explanation. He turned back to Charlie.

"Clearly, I'm not going to convince you otherwise. It's from another dimension. You saw it come through a window, or a mirror, yes? Normally they can't breach that boundary, but occasionally, one or two slip through. No problem sending it back, though."

"What, you trapped it in some kind of displacement beam… to send it back to its own dimension?"

The man frowned.

"Yes. How did you know that?"

"Know what?"

"That I used a displacement beam generator?"

"…I didn't."

The man glared at him, trying to work out if he was telling the truth.

"Are there more of them?" Charlie asked

"Back in their own dimension, yes. I dread to think what would happen if more than one of them managed to slip through the void. It could be very nasty indeed."

"So they're trying to kill us?"

The man shrugged. "Well, not really. They're not evil. They're creatures of instinct. They just want to… eat."

"Eat?"

"Yes. They'll drain all your energy – your life force – like drinking a glass of water. Only the Wraiths can't exist in our dimension, so they'll shift back to theirs-." The man accompanied the idea with hand gestures.

"- That's the light? -"

"- yes, that's the light. And then you're torn from this dimension, and forced into another where you can't exist. In fact, you're completely torn from existence, atom by atom."

"Woah…"

"And there's this massive release of energy, which is what they consume."

Charlie's mind raced with the absurdity, and abject horror of it all.

"So they feed off the energy from atomic bonds, or something?"

"I have absolutely no idea. I've never been to their dimension, for the obvious reason that I would be _torn-apart-atom-by-atom_."

"A horrific death?" considered Charlie, staring glumly at the asphalt. "Fair enough."

The man glared at him for a few moments, and assumed that Charlie had finished asking questions, so returned to the deconstruction of the displacement beam generator.

"Are you sure it won't come back?" Charlie asked.

"Yes, I'm sure." He shot back impatiently.

"Because it kept coming back in… my dreams."

The man offered him a thin smile.

"Oh, don't worry. My plan is one hundred percent successful at trapping Wraiths. I've done it before." he spoke offhandedly.

As if heralded by his words, there was a brilliant flash of white light, and the Wraith materialized before them.

It raised its bowed, domed head, and grinned with crooked teeth. Charlie's heart sank in his chest.

"But that's impossible!" Growled the man.

He backed away, glaring at Charlie in confusion.


	3. Chapter 3: The Madman and the Box

"Plan B!" the man yelled.

He grabbed Charlie's arm, and they accelerated once more into a run as the Wraith lumbered towards them.

Charlie had not quite recovered from the last exertion, and he could feel a stitch developing in his side. This was the most exercise he'd done in a few years. He was beginning to feel lightheaded, and nauseous. His legs were burning. The pain! But this was good pain. It kept him going. Kept him running, reminding him of the worse pain that would befall if he didn't keep moving.

There was a flash ahead of them, blinding him. The man grabbed his arm again and Charlie's head span. When his vision cleared, he saw that they were now running down an alleyway. His legs were moving automatically, numb to the pain.

Ahead of them, illuminated by a neon streetlight, was a tall, wooden blue box.

"In there!"

Charlie followed the man's outstretched arm. There could be nothing else he was pointing to, but the box, which bore the words: 'Police Box'. It was difficult for him to concentrate, but this box seemed rather small – and flimsy. Surely the Wraith would have no difficulty smashing through those panels?

They skidded to a halt, and the man pushed the door open with a creak. They entered.

Oh. Well, of course.

The inside of the box was a vast room, much bigger than the outside. A hexagonal panel rose out of the floor in the centre, littered with buttons and levers. A polished metal handrail ran around them, converging on the ramp which led to the door. Orange and white lights pulsed around the walls, and a low hum filled the room.

A control room! It was a ship!

The man locked the door – a simple Yale latch. It didn't look as though it could keep a ten-year-old out, never mind a dangerous Wraith from another dimension.

The man sauntered up the ramp to the centre of the room, and adjusted his shirt cuffs. He flicked his jacket aside and drove a hand into his pocket.

"We'll be safe here. It won't be able to follow us. Nothing can get through those doors, I promise."

The man frowned, muttering to himself:

"Well, apart from us. And an open-ended transmat beam."

Charlie's head was spinning, and his legs were aching. He really needed to sit down.

Spotting a seat next to an arc-shaped control panel, he took the opportunity to occupy it.

The man regarded him for a moment, waggling his eyebrows, his lower lip curled between his teeth.

This man was a little bit weird, Charlie thought. If he hadn't just saved his life, he wasn't sure this was the type of person he'd want to meet on a normal day.

"No? _Fine._ "

The man turned his back on him, and moved over to the central console. The column piercing it illuminated him with a red glow, highlighting his craggy features. He flicked a switch on a trapezoidal panel.

"What's your name?" he asked, without looking at him, instead focusing his attention on the monitor and its strange, swirling readouts.

"Charlie."

He was still shaking from their escape; the adrenaline pumping through his body. He noticed he was jigging his leg, and stopped.

He quickly brought his breathing under control, and stared at the floor, not quite able to process everything that had just happened.

As the last of his energy drained from him, he realised how exhausted he was. He was fighting against gravity just to keep his eyes open. Any second now, he might keel over and fall asleep.

And perhaps never wake up…?

"I'm the Doctor," the man announced, "Just ' _The_ Doctor'."

The Doctor looked up from the scanner, to observe Charlie's reaction.

"I'm two thousand, three hundred and eighty years old, and I'm from the planet Gallifrey in the Kasterborous system."

The Doctor frowned. He had expected a wide-eyed expression of awe, as the boy drank in the alien surroundings, his understanding of the laws of physics completely transformed.

But there was nothing. No confusion. Not even curiosity. The boy was just staring through the floor grating, seeing nothing.

"Come on!" the Doctor urged in desperation, "Aren't you even going to say _'But it's bigger on the inside! How is that even possible? We went into a tiny blue box a moment ago!'_ "

The Doctor frowned again, and idly adjusted a control.

"I always look forward to that part," he whined under his breath.

"I had noticed," Charlie responded, without looking up.

He was so tired, he was barely listening to what the Doctor was saying.

The Doctor glared at him, appalled.

"You didn't think to _raise the question?_ "

"What question?" Charlie asked resignedly.

" _How?_ How is that possible?" the Doctor waved his arms, gesturing the impossible room around him.

Charlie merely stared at him. He was shaking his head minutely, as though he couldn't care less, but couldn't find words strong enough to speak his mind.

"What would be the point?" he uttered, beaten.

The Doctor stared at him for a moment, studying him, as Charlie had done to him a short while ago.

Human male, aged sixteen or seventeen. Wearing clothes that try to look normal, without being expressive: blue jeans, grey T-shirt, unremarkable shoes.

The Doctor was usually very good at reading people, but was finding very little to work with. Quiet. Not particularly sporty, judging by the running. Low self-esteem, perhaps?

Oh! Yes, missed that one! Quite a big thing to miss as well. Something he'd seen a billion times.

"What is it?" the Doctor asked, trying to sound caring, but not managing it very well.

"What's what?"

"What's wrong?"

Charlie looked up, and locked his gaze onto the Doctor.

"Nothing," he said, sharply.

The Doctor relaxed his eyebrows, puffing a bemused dismissal.

"I've heard that one before."

He paced around the TARDIS console. Perhaps what the boy needed…

"If you want," said the Doctor, slowly and carefully, "I could take off, in my ship."

Still seeing no response, he added: "It travels in time."

Charlie frowned, and his eyes lit up, flicking over to the Doctor. Suddenly, he looked more alert.

"Anywhere in time?" Charlie asked, levelly, searching the Doctor's eyes.

Time travel was surely impossible, but after what he'd just seen, Charlie was prepared to believe anything.

"And space," the Doctor added, "Time and Relative Dimension in Space – TARDIS."

"Fascinating," said Charlie, his mind racing.

He examined the room again, seeing it properly for the first time.

"Relative dimension…" he considered the words. "It's bigger on the inside because it isn't really inside the box…"

Charlie stood up, walking closer to the Doctor, excitedly waving his finger every time he made a point.

"We're actually in another dimension. It just _looks_ like we're inside the box," he realised.

The Doctor tipped his head to one side. "Well, sort of. Not really, I mean, that isn't what 'relative dimension' refers to… But if it helps your understanding, then I suppose…"

"That's why the Wraith can't get us in here," reasoned Charlie, "It would have to break through yet another dimension."

"Very good," conceded the Doctor. His expression gave away his surprise towards Charlie's quick deductions.

"But why was it following me? And…"

Charlie paused, a thought striking him. And he felt quietly ashamed for not having considered it before.

"What about my mum?"

She was left alone in the house. What had happened to her? What if that creature went back there?

The Doctor's muscles tensed and he grasped a handrail defensively. He was never quite sure what would happen when people's mothers were involved. It rarely ended well.

"She's fine," he assured the boy, "As you said, it was following you. I'm not sure why."

The Doctor fell silent for a moment, his lips pressed together, in deep thought.

He whirled around, and ascended the stairs at the far end of the control room. He selected a book from one of the shelves, licked his fingers, and began turning the pages.

"My plan really should have worked. There was no way it could have established another connection to our dimension. Unless…"

The Doctor snapped the book shut, and returned it.

"It's centred on you, somehow. Using you to break into our dimension."

"Me?" Charlie scratched the back of his head, ruffling his hair. "Are you saying that it got here because I dreamt about it?"

The Doctor ran his finger across the bookshelf, scanning the covers.

"Well, the dream's probably just a side effect of… of… whatever it's doing," he muttered absent-mindedly.

Charlie bit his lip.

The Doctor noticed his pensiveness, and paused – his finger still pressed against the spine of a book.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yeah…" Charlie muttered without thinking, "It's just… I was always told that the dream – the Wraith – was only a representation of… my thoughts and…"

The Doctor glared at him, and he faltered.

"You never believed that, did you?" the Doctor spoke gently.

Charlie shook his head.

"It's real, Charlie."

He felt a twinge in his chest, and realised that the Doctor _understood_. He seemed to understood him better than anyone else he'd ever met - better than Sandra, and his mum. There was an aura about this impossible man, radiating wisdom, the likes of which he'd never seen before. If the Doctor could explain what this Wraith was, he might be able to explain some of the other things he didn't understand right now.

"So I'm some kind of… gateway for it?" Charlie asked.

"Uh, yes," agreed the Doctor, distractedly. He looked around him, patting his jacket pockets.

"I'm sure I've got a book on them somewhere."

He waved and index finger in the air. "It's probably in the library."

Charlie glanced up at the Doctor, and quickly searched the massive room for another doorway.

"Wait, you mean there's more? This ship is _that_ much bigger on the inside?" Charlie exclaimed.

The Doctor's eyes twinkled.

" _Now_ you're impressed. I'll be back in a few minutes. You stay there. Try and get some rest. You look like you need it."

Charlie nodded and returned to the seat, a half-smile plastered across his face.

* * *

The Doctor strode down the corridor towards the library, deep in thought.

"What is it I've missed? Something really big. Says he's fine, but he's lying."

The Doctor spoke aloud, not that he anticipated a response to his questions. But it often helped to share his thoughts with the TARDIS.

The Doctor barely noticed a heavy steel door slide open with a hiss, even as he entered the room beyond.

"What's the connection between the Wraith and the boy? How did it get here?" he repositioned the emphasis, hoping a different approach to the question would reveal some answers: "How did it _get_ here? How did _it..._ get _here?_ "

The Doctor entered a small alcove, where a couple of battered and warped mahogany bookcases were propped up against the wall, stacked with leather bound volumes, glass phials, and a paperback novel that one of his predecessors had started reading, but never finished.

The room still smelled damp, he noted with a reminiscent smirk.

He grandly pushed open a set of wooden double doors, leading to a vast library, with rows upon rows of books, a dozen layers high.

The Doctor quickly found the book he was looking for, and flipped through the pages, reading at incredible speed.

His brows knotted together in horror, and he turned back to a drawing. It depicted a bony, skeletal creature, with muscles and tendons hanging limply from cracked ribs.

"It didn't look like that… Why did it look so different?"

He looked up from the book in startled realisation.

"Oh, that's not good. He was right. It _is_ the dream. Which means…"

The book slipped from the Doctor's numb fingers.

"I've put everyone in terrible danger!" he whispered in horror.

"Charlie!" the Doctor called, as he raced from the library.

* * *

The lights pulsing around the TARDIS were hypnotising. Sleep inducing, Charlie thought.

He watched for a while, wondering how on Earth he had managed to end up here. Hiding from a ravenous Wraith in a time machine belonging to a man from another world.

He was still having difficulty believing it was all real. _A time machine?_

Up until today, he had never believed in anything which couldn't be proven. And there had never been any evidence for the existence of time travel… had there?

It was impossible, at least by the human understanding of physics. Traversing the fourth dimension defied these rules, which left it as a purely theoretical concept in the realms of science fiction. Sure, Charlie enjoyed a good science fiction novel, but they were just stories. They weren't real.

But then, the TARDIS itself seemed to defy the laws of physics, so Charlie wasn't ready to rule out the possibility that he was standing inside a ship that could travel anywhere – and anywhen – in the universe _just_ yet.

Even so, the mere thought that he'd just met an alien who could take him back in time sent his mind racing with endless possibilities.

That was assuming he wasn't going crazy, of course, Charlie thought with a smirk.

Or dreaming.

Perhaps this was all a part of some crazy dream he was having. Everything seemed so unreal - it didn't seem so ridiculous an idea.

Because this was exactly what he wanted: an escape. A way out of his mundane, and at times, downright miserable existence.

That would mean the Wraith was still a recurrence of the same nightmare he'd been having for months, and the Doctor was just…

The Doctor was _him_ , Charlie realised with a lurch. The man who made things better. The man who stopped the monsters, and made sure he was safe. The man he had invented. But how could he be real?

Charlie plunged his face into his palms, struggling to be sure of anything. Struggling to make sense of what was happening.

Despite his conflicting thoughts, he was comfortable. The TARDIS was warm, and made him feel relaxed, for the first time in a long time.

He closed his eyes, and it was not long before he drifted into troubled sleep.

* * *

He did not seem to have control over his body. He was standing in front of the mirror in his room. Except that it didn't really look like his room at all – he just knew that was where his mind thought he was.

Observing his weirdly thin body, he extended his left arm, covered in scars.

As he reached out to feel them, each one began to sear with pain. He looked up, and in his mirror, dark, deoxygenated blood gushed out of his reflected arm. He tried desperately to stem the flow, but as the blood trickled through his fingers, he only seemed to make it worse.

The sunken eyes of his reflection were black, glaring at him with an expression of bewilderment.

He looked down at his real wound. The skin was pale, but clean. It was the mirror distorting his mind. The mirror, reflecting hate, and anger, and bitterness back at him. It was evil. The reflection wanted to hurt him.

He peered back at it, discovering his mirror counterpart was still fascinated by his hands. One of his fists was balled up, concealing something.

Charlie unfurled his hand, and the mirror copied him.

They were holding a key. A small key, for a padlock. He recognised it: the lost key for the box under his bed. Without this, the precious contents of the box were hidden from him forever.

The key began to glow, white hot, burning its shape into his palm. The pain shocked him, and the key tumbled to the floor, where it bubbled and melted, releasing smoky fumes.

No! He began to yell, but the sound was distorted: somehow outside of him.

He dropped to his knees, and began to scrabble at the floor. He couldn't bear to lose it again - but it was gone.

His tormented cries turned into laughter, and he slowly realised that the reflection was laughing at him.

He frowned, scared and confused, as his mirror image grinned at him. He dared to edge closer to the glass.

His reflection imitated him, until their noses were inches apart.

He stared into the vacant, black eyes. They were so dark; they appeared to absorb all light. There was no shine, no reflection. It was as though the eyes had been cut out, leaving an infinite void.

They stared at each other for a moment longer, transfixed.

Suddenly, the black eyes burst, and Charlie leapt back, horrified.

The empty eye sockets bled; a thick tar-like substance oozed down the cheeks.

Charlie tore himself away from the mirror, and woke with a jolt.

* * *

He was back in the TARDIS.

But he sensed that he was no longer alone. Had the Doctor returned?

Something passed, just out of the corner of his vision.

Charlie leapt up and span around. There was nothing there.

His eyes narrowed, and he bent down to see if there was something lurking beneath one of the control panels. Nothing.

He relaxed, and turned back – and very nearly cried out.

It was in the room with him! The Wraith.

But that was impossible. The Doctor had promised that it couldn't enter the TARDIS.

It wasn't dark inside the Doctor's ship, and the creature's face – if you could call it that – was no longer left to his imagination. The jagged teeth, no nose: only slits for nostrils. And the eyes… The Wraith did not have eyes; only empty sockets, clotted with blood, trickling down its high cheekbones, almost giving the effect of tears.

It lunged forward before he could react, and grabbed his shoulders with both hands, and opened its mouth, drawing in air with a rattling breath.

Charlie grappled with it, but its grip was like steel. He only succeeded in tearing away the creature's tattered sleeve.

What he saw nearly stopped his heart.

The Wraith had scars, like his; white traces, barely healed, and only thinly veiled with decaying skin.

In fact, the scars were identical to his.

"Wake up!" Harsh Scottish tones penetrated his brain, but the words were slurred, warped. "It's in the TARDIS! You need to wake up!"


	4. Chapter 4: Running Away

"Wake up!" the Doctor yelled.

Charlie opened his eyes. The Doctor had seized his shoulders, and was trying to shake him awake.

The Doctor's glare burned into him. He hauled Charlie to his feet, and pushed him back, so that he was blocking the Wraith's path. The creature was not advancing, but writhing on the spot, uncoiling to its full height, as if drawing energy.

"You were right," exclaimed the Doctor, gesticulating wildly, so that Charlie couldn't pass - not that he'd have wanted to. "Your dream brought it into existence. That's not its natural form: _you_ imagined it. Somehow, the Wraith hijacked your nightmare."

"I- what- what do we do?" Charlie asked, tugging at his hair in frustration.

"I don't know. You need to un-imagine it."

" _What?_ "

"We need to stop it before it draws enough power from the TARDIS to release its friends from the other dimension. You need to get it out of here."

"Me? But how…?"

The Doctor sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. He glanced over his shoulder.

"Look, you brought it here, whether consciously or not. It looks like that," he thrust his thumb over at the Wraith, "because it used your dream to take a corporeal form. All you need to do," he braced himself, "is believe that it doesn't exist."

Charlie gaped at him. He had no idea how to achieve that. He felt a surge of panic rise through him.

"How… how do you even know that's going to work?"

The Doctor opened his mouth to answer. It was a second before he admitted: "I don't. We've moved on to plan C. That's uncharted territory."

Charlie continued to stare at him, thoroughly discouraged.

"Can't you take the TARDIS into flight?" he suggested, clutching at straws.

The Doctor clenched his fists and thumped himself lightly on the forehead.

"No, no, if I fly the TARDIS now, the Wraith will absorb all the energy it needs. Do you know how I power this thing? It runs on a star that's about to collapse – have you any idea how much energy those things have?"

The Wraith began to shriek. It was squirming more vigorously. There was a crunch as its own bones skewered its body.

A cry of horror slipped from Charlie's mouth.

"Quickly! It's returning to its natural form," shouted the Doctor.

Charlie concentrated on it, but began to despair. If he was going to do this – whatever 'this' was – he needed to calm down. He remembered to use one of Sandra's grounding techniques, and began concentrating on randomly moving the fingers on his right hand.

"I'm not afraid," he whispered, "I'm not afraid of it."

It was no good – the sight of the creature was imprinted upon his mind. How could it not exist? It was right there in front of him!

The Doctor spoke gravely: "When more of those things get here, they won't need to shift back to their dimension to eat. They will feast upon the Earth. Your planet will become a hell, and they won't stop there."

The Doctor's words were not reassuring. The idea of what these creatures would do to him, to his mum, and to everyone else on the planet, did not fill him with hope.

"They will shift to other worlds, and strip them bare," he continued.

"Stop!" Charlie yelled at him. "Just stop talking! It's not helping."

"Sorry," the Doctor murmured, and fell silent.

He backed away as the Wraith approached him, its flesh rapidly decomposing, falling away in wet chunks.

Charlie shook his head, staring at the Wraith, its fingernails bursting through its flesh like knives.

"Doctor?" Charlie asked, his ears pounding with a crescendo of blood rushing to his head. "Are _you_ scared?"

"No," he lied.

However, Charlie felt a surge of determination, and he concentrated, focusing on the creature.

"It doesn't exist. It can't exist," he repeated to himself, over and over.

It wasn't having any effect. He didn't really believe it. The creature was still advancing, very slowly, with faltering steps.

There was a flash of light. A Wraith, in its true, skeletal form, appeared right behind the Doctor.

"Doctor!" Charlie reached out to him. Too late.

"Aagh!" the Doctor gasped.

The Wraith had its needle-like claws curled around the Doctor's neck.

Their eyes met. The only word that could describe the Doctor's expression was shock. Shock, that _this_ was how it was going to end, and there was nothing he could do about it.

There was another flash of light, much brighter than the first. And the Doctor was gone.

It was over in a second.

Charlie shook his head, minutely.

"No."

He turned angrily towards the creature.

"Bring him back!"

Another creature appeared. Then another. And another.

The Wraith bared its teeth, in what might have been a grin, and began to advance.

"He was my only chance…"

The Wraiths were unmoved by his plight, and scuttled hungrily towards him.

The Doctor's plans had failed. He had failed to send the creature back. Now the TARDIS had failed to protect them.

And it was Charlie's fault. The Wraiths were here because of him. It was through his dreams that these monsters had broken into this world. He was their connection to this dimension.

Surely that meant…?

Charlie could only think of one way to break the connection: by removing himself from the equation.

The thought didn't make him nervous. It had been preying on his mind for months, now.

But what if it didn't work? What if that didn't solve anything? What if the Wraiths would still tear the world apart?

Because his only other hope was that this really was just a terrible nightmare. That this wasn't real, and he would wake up any minute.

He pinched his skin. It hurt.

This was real, then. He was going to die.

 _No_. There had to be another way.

Charlie began to panic. He looked down at his arm, and back up at the first Wraith. Suddenly, things began to make sense.

He tightened his fist. His hand clasped around the scarred skin in regret.

No. Never again. Stupid, stupid thing to do. _He_ would never have wanted that.

"I want to go on," Charlie decided, quietly.

Of course. He looked up, facing the creature. His creature. His demon.

He smiled. A smile without love. Without pity.

"I want to survive!" he spat at the Wraith, louder this time.

Because this demon was a part of him, just as Sandra had told him. And he knew why it was chasing him. He knew exactly what it was. Sure, it was a monster that came from another dimension, but it was more than that. It was the nightmare that plagued him, and chased him wherever he went. It was the nightmare that would chase him until the end of his days. Sometimes it was nice to put a face to the name.

He spoke, calmly – feeling more in control than he ever had before.

"I can't change the past. I can't change the things that have happened. But I can change the future. Change the present. Change what happens now."

He pointed at the Wraith, and they stopped.

His eyes darted between them, daring them to step closer. He felt powerful. He was strong, and they were weak. _He_ was in control – not these creatures.

"You are evil. Despicable. But you've actually brought me the one thing I need right now. A way out."

The creatures craned their heads, observing him in unison.

One of them opened its mouth, as if to speak - but Charlie could see straight through its ribcage - the thing had no lungs. The creature's grotesque body no longer scared him.

"Thank you," he spat.

With that, Charlie turned his back on the Wraiths, and closed his eyes, content. If they were going to kill him… well, he could live with that.

His heart raced. Did the Doctor say 'torn from existence, atom by atom'? It was going to be painful, but it would be over soon. He would make things better.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder.

"Gah!" he cried, his muscles tensing. Reflexively, he broke the grip and span round.

"Woah!" the Doctor chuckled, raising his hands in mock-surrender.

Charlie took a moment to catch his breath, as he absorbed the sight before him. The Wraiths were gone. It was just the Doctor.

"Don't – don't do that again!" Charlie warned.

The Doctor smiled. Or as close to a smile as he could manage, anyway.

"Not bad."

"What happened to you?" Charlie asked him. "I thought you said you'd die horribly if they got you?"

"Horrifically," the Doctor corrected, examining Charlie's stunned expression. "There's no need to look so _disappointed!_ "

"I'm not!" Charlie protested. "It's just… how…?"

The Doctor shrugged, casting a puzzled eyebrow upon the dial on the console he was idly toying with.

"I'm a Time Lord. I may not have been affected the same way as you. Besides," he swung back to Charlie, "you stopped them from existing here. In a sense, there was no way I could have been taken."

"So where are they? Back in their own dimension?"

"I imagine so."

The Doctor moved around the console, pulling the monitor nearer to him.

"That means they could still come back, doesn't it?"

The Doctor was examining something on the screen. "Potentially. They'd need another dreamer like you, to act as a gateway. And there's something else – something that really doesn't make sense – but I can't quite put my finger on it."

"But they won't use me again?" Charlie confirmed. "They can't use me again?"

"Did you sever their connection to our dimension?" The Doctor pierced him with his steel grey eyes.

Charlie stared at the console, trying to work out what happened. Work out what he did.

"I have no idea."

Whatever had happened, had just... _happened_. He couldn't explain it.

The Doctor frowned, pushing the screen away, and walked hurriedly to the door.

"Hold on a moment," he murmured apologetically, "I've just got to deal with something outside. I won't be long. Then I'll take you back home."

He opened the door and left, shutting it behind him.

Charlie was left alone in the blue box once more.

 _I'll take you back home..._

The Doctor's words remained in the air, even after he'd gone outside. He began to imagine the Doctor shouting angrily at him, and had to shake his head to clear the thoughts from his mind.

He had to admit, he was disappointed. But he'd never really expected the Doctor to suggest travelling somewhere in the time machine.

He casually examined the controls on the console. He had no idea how it worked. There were a lot of complicated levers, buttons, switches and dials strewn across it. As well as a whole panel filled with an orange goo-like substance, which gave him an electrostatic shock when he put his hand near it.

"Whoops." He scratched his head.

"Probably best to leave it," he smirked in amusement.

* * *

The Doctor shielded his eyes from the sun, and looked at the near-identical houses in the suburban street around him, grinning. _Humans._

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed three people approaching him; he'd seen them on the TARDIS scanner. The grin disappeared from his face, and he span round, throwing them a piercing look.

"Kate Stewart?" he raised an eyebrow, "And two of your toy soldiers. What are you doing here? We're not exactly in the heart of London."

The glare of the two armed UNIT officers were not welcoming. Nor was Kate's, for that matter.

"We found the TARDIS." She glanced at a CCTV camera bolted to the façade of a shop.

"I know, I left it here. You're not going to take it away with a big helicopter again, are you?"

Kate ignored him. She did not appear to be in the mood to humour his cynical remarks.

"I came in person, because I need to talk with you."

"Really? What about?" The Doctor returned Kate's icy stare.

"About your companion," Kate answered, shooting the Doctor an imploring look.

"What companion? I don't have a companion," the Doctor replied, sternly.

"The boy. We saw you with him today."

"Why do you think he's my companion?"

The Doctor raised his head, and looked down the bridge of his nose at her.

Kate pulled out a smartphone from her coat pocket, and flicked through a few grainy photographs of the Doctor and Charlie – depicting moments that had not happened yet.

"The two of you showed up on the moon three months ago," Kate said matter-of-factly.

"Don't show me those!" the Doctor growled, pushing the phone away. "You know I'm a time traveller. And that hasn't happened for me, yet!"

The Doctor pointed at the image of his own grumpy expression, peering up at the camera whilst Charlie was staring out of a set of huge windows.

He cursed internally, and averted his eyes from the picture, until Kate stowed the phone away. This was going to be problematic. It certainly threw a sonic spanner in the works. Whether he liked it or not, these events now had to happen.

"I know we're out of sync, but I thought it necessary to warn you about him. I wouldn't normally tell you this, but we ran a background check," Kate informed him.

"Great," hissed the Doctor, acerbically. "Find anything?"

"You shouldn't take him with you. He's unstable. He's been in therapy. There could be dangerous consequences…" Kate pleaded with him.

The Doctor put his hands in his pockets, and returned his attention to the houses. They were less stony.

"Well Kate, I think you've made up my mind. I'll just take him home, now."

He nodded towards the TARDIS.

Kate was stunned: the Doctor _never_ listened to her. It took her a moment to realise that nothing had changed.

"No, hold on. You're still going to take him with you, aren't you? You can't do that!"

"I don't care what you think I can and can't do," the Doctor roared. " _I don't care._ I wasn't _going_ to let him travel with me. But now that you've told me not to, I think I will!"

"Now you're just being childish!" she scolded him.

"When am I not?" the Doctor challenged.

That earned a reproving look from Kate.

He pointed a bony finger at her. "You should think twice before coming round here with your guns and giving me orders! I'm going back inside the TARDIS, and I don't want to hear another word from you."

The Doctor opened the TARDIS door and strode inside.

Kate glanced desperately at her two guards, but they offered no assistance.

"I'll be back in my office within the hour, and I want to see you there!" she snapped, in a tone that reminded the Doctor of a headmistress.

The Doctor slammed the door shut, after casting a fierce, disapproving look at her. The engines sounded, and the TARDIS began to fade.

"Doctor!" Kate grabbed her coat to stop it flapping in the wind generated by the Doctor's ship. She turned to one of the aides.

"Get my car. We're going back to the Tower."

* * *

Charlie said nothing as the Doctor crossly entered the TARDIS, set some controls and threw a lever. There was a grinding; coming from within the ship, and the room began to shudder. The engine began to wheeze and roar – a noise that somehow filled him with elation. He felt the TARDIS. Felt its power. And then it dawned on him.

"It's alive!" he grinned. "The TARDIS isn't a machine – it's alive."

The Doctor raised his eyebrows. "Oh, you worked that one out fast."

Charlie nodded, and shifted his weight to retain his balance as the floor lurched gently. A ship. A living ship, travelling through space and time… but the Doctor was taking him home. His heart sank.

"Where are we going?" he asked, fully expecting the Doctor to confirm his supposition.

"We're running away." He looked into Charlie's eyes. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

The Doctor twisted a dial, and the TARDIS stabilised. He gestured towards the door.

"I'm running away from a bunch of military pudding-brains, whom I happen to work for."

This surprised Charlie – the Doctor did not seem to be the sort of person that actually had a job. The Doctor walked closer to him.

"And you… You're running as well."

They stared at each other for a moment.

"Running from your life. From decisions, and responsibilities. They'll catch up with you eventually, but for now…"

He slung his arm over the TARDIS screen.

"There's so much out there to see: galaxies… planets… moons… stars and space stations, constellations and solar systems!"

"What about the running thing? Is that gonna keep happening? It's… exhausting."

"Oh, there's an awful lot of that…"

The Doctor frowned, teasing him. "But you don't have to go. I can always take you home…"

Charlie nodded slowly, weighing up his options. There was no decision to make. He would gladly accept the Doctor's offer. There was nothing more that he wanted.

Although he didn't want to push his luck, he felt the need to challenge the Doctor on one thing:

"You said that… the TARDIS, it travels in time?"

The Doctor nodded. "Yes, I think I said that."

"I don't believe you," Charlie uttered, concealing his grin.

The Doctor's expression dipped into a frown, and whether he was aware of it or not, he gently stroked one of the control panels.

"You don't…?" he muttered, exasperated. "Of course it travels in time. It's a time machine! It can travel to any single point in the universe."

Charlie continued to hold the Doctor's gaze, without saying anything. He knew that silence would urge the Doctor to keep talking.

"I'll prove it!" he declared, curling his fingers around a lever. "You want to see the future?"

"Okay."

"You want to see the future of the human race? Wonders, far beyond your understanding? Because I can show you that," the Doctor promised.

Charlie probably had a stupid grin on his face. But he didn't care. It felt like the Doctor had lifted a great weight from his shoulders.

He was going to make everything better.

"To the… future," Charlie said, as a toast.

"To the future, then."

The Doctor pushed the lever, and they were running, falling through the vortex of time and space.

* * *

 **Author's Notes**

 **Thank you for reading. I'd love to hear your thoughts.**

 **If you've enjoyed this story, I hope you'll continue to follow this series of Twelfth Doctor adventures.**

 **The Twelfth Doctor and Charlie will return in _Virtual Insanity_. The Doctor takes Charlie on his first trip in the TARDIS. Needless to say, it doesn't go as planned.**

* * *

 **On a side note, if you'd like to accompany this adventure with some music, I recommend "Escape" by Hunter Morris. I think it works quite well for Charlie's character.**


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